Dragonlock
by Brigadier-Erin-Lightning
Summary: A fantastical tale of Watson's army years, though in this England dragons are the tools of war as opposed to guns and Watson's partner is truly a fire-breathing sociopath of a detective.
1. Chapter 1

_God, the Sherlock dreams keep coming and I feel obliged to record them no matter how out-there they may be. I think this will become a series, if anyone's interested in it. And I also think it stemmed from the whole Martin and Smaug fandom. The first chapter was written in about 25 minutes, no editing, present tense, but at least it's not sad this time. I hope you enjoy Dragonlock!_

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><em><em>

**Dragonlock**

**A Sherlock fanfiction by Erin R. Lightning**

**Chapter One**

It occurs to John Watson that he has never met a dragon before. Why it occurs is simple - he is a human doctor and he's seen just what the nasty beasts can do to a human body. It isn't pretty and John's always been fairly certain he doesn't want it done to him. Then why, he asks himself, am I doing this?

John is headed up the mountainside with his fellow recruits. Today, they will be introduced to the dragons that are to carry them into battle. He is shaking inside, but cannot let anyone else see him - he doesn't want to be the baby of the group. The gravel beneath his feet makes an even crunching noise as he marches up the steep slope in time to the instructor's chanting. He can smell the brimstone in the air and something else - sulfer? A shiver.

John's not sure what made him want to become a soldier. There are of course the natural desires of aiding his fellow man - doctors are always wanted on the battlefield, after all - or having a little adventure and then he is in need of money. But inwardly he knows he's a coward. And they had refrained from telling him that even medics had to pair themselves with the great beasts the soldiers rode into battle. The thought gives him pause. Were there to be separate dragons for the medics? Smaller, maybe less ferocious, helpful dragons? Oh he'd like that, he thought - something friendly, instead of an enormous, insensitive brute. Someone to share tea with, that is, assuming dragons liked tea.

John blindly walks into the recruit in front of him who snaps back a reproachful smolder. John ducks his head. He needs to look where he's going when he daydreams. The instructor addresses all of the halted recruits: "Today, you will be meeting your own personal dragon. These creatures are deadly, so be on your guard. Do not try to force any of them into serving you - the beasts have a way about them - they know their master and will find you in good time." John can see the cave mouth that leads into an inky darkness. He swallows. "You are very fortunate," the instructor continues, "Once paired, your bond with your dragon will be stronger than anything - even your love for a lady. They will know you inside and out - better than you know yourself. They are fast, agile, and above all clever. An invaluable asset to our military, which we are entrusting to you. Do us proud, cadets." And he moves aside, ushering the spellbound initiates into the cavern's gaping mouth.

John draws up short as he enters. A great, flame-red monster with eight eyes and an enormous jaw filled with razor sharp teeth bears down on him. He holds terribly still, though his heart is pounding. The creature leans down, sniffs him, then turns away, its tail almost taking off his head as it whips through the air, unsatisfied. It takes him a moment, but he finally draws a breath. His legs feel like jelly. He finds the wall and steadies himself against it, finally able to look around, but no prepared for what he sees.

The cavern is larger than he could ever have imagined. The sands stretch on for miles and there, out upon them, are a myriad of great, flaming, flapping beasts. Some seem occupied with the newly-entered humans, while others are quite content not to be. Fear and fascination grip the army doctor. He doesn't even know where to begin.

Finally, he forces himself from the wall. It won't do to show fear. He walks out onto the sands and approaches a quiet-looking dragon in the middle of the cavern. It looks up at him with sharp, cat-like eyes and hisses at his approach. He backs away, straight into the claws of a six-headed beast whose feathered neck plumes all frill upwards at the intrusion and it bears its fangs angrily as it shoves him away. He falls and, looking upward, finds himself just inches away from a true behemoth of a dragon with jet black scales and flaming eyes and spikes from the tip of its nose straight down to its tail, all in varying, nightmarish degrees. Without thinking, he runs.

It's in a back corner of the room that John secludes himself. The days events have been much too much for him. He is breathing heavily, his hand pressed to his chest. How, he wonders, do I befriend these…these monsters!

"They are an unsavory lot," a voice concurs. John, startled, looks up. At first he sees nothing, and then a slender neck emerges from the shadows, the head atop it slim with only two horns arching up from just above its brows. The dragon that unfurls itself from the shadows is quite large, but not nearly so big as the monstrous ones at the entrance, and its body is smooth and spry, almost catlike, where the others have mostly been bulky and spiked to no end. The dragon's scales are the color of doeskin, a deep but fair brown. But the most startling feature of the dragon is his eyes - they are the most stunning silver Watson has ever gazed upon. He opens his mouth to say something, but the creature tilts its head and asks him, in a polite and low-spoken growl, "Have you a riding crop?"

Watson blinks. His hand has instinctively gone to the very thing, tucked in at his waist beside the other riding gear the instructor had insisted upon weighting the recruits down with. "Why would a dragon need a riding crop?"

The silver-eyed creature looks taken aback. "For science."

Watson cannot help but laugh. "A dragon who studies science?"

The creature's mouth has curled downwards. A little puff of smoke emits from its nostrals. "If you please," it tries to be kind, but the words cut like diamonds, "hand me your riding crop."

John doesn't want to be roasted. He obeys. The dragon takes the device and turns round, moving deeper into the cavern. John, who very well can't leave his riding crop in the hands of a less-than-sane dragon, or so he presumes, follows along at its heels.

It occurs to John that he has never seen a dead dragon before. This of course is as he is standing just over the body of one, a young one, with vibrant green scales and a spiked carapace. The scent is intolerable - it reeks of burned things mixed with a variety of minerals and that looming deceased flesh smell. He at least manages to turn away before vomiting.

The dragon with him seems less bothered. With a cold, calculated way about him, the beast raises the riding crop and begins to viciously assault the body. Watson feels himself retch again. He turns away. When the dragon is good and done, John feels the tap of the crop at his shoulder. He turns to take it and notices how well-groomed the beasts' claws are. "You are the strangest dragon I have ever met," John remarks, tucking the riding crop back at his belt.

The dragon looks hurt. It steels its gaze before Watson can see. "You wouldn't be the first to say that. But then again, you have never met a dragon before - aside from those brutes at the front."

Watson blinks. "How did you know?"

"It's a simple matter of deduction. The recruits who have met our kind before carry themselves a little higher, with pride, than the ones who haven't. They feel they have a leg-up in their pairings because they can affect the stout look of the unafraid. Whereas the rest of you shrink a bit and simply hope we won't take off your heads."

Watson had heard dragons were intelligent, that they knew things even men didn't, but he had not expected this. "What else do you know about me?"

The dragon regards him for a second, then speaks: "I know that you are a doctor, you joined by choice, not by force, though frankly the thought of being anywhere near a battle scares you more than you'd want anyone to know. I know you come from a good family, or at least one with money, but you have had a falling-out with them and a recent one at that - likely you were not left an inheritance when your father passed. You joined the military so that you would have somewhere to go that wasn't your family estate. And the reason why you could not just use your family's wealth to buy a separate home is because the inheritor, probably your brother, won't trust you with it - I assume you have a gambling problem of some kind or other."

Watson needs a breather. "All that?" he asks. The dragon looks at him as though the aforementioned was as clear as day. Watson is about to ask how he had surmised so much when their eyes meet full-on for the very first time.

The feeling is like nothing he had ever known. One minute he is John Watson, Doctor, standing and feeling a little foolish on the sands of the cavern - the next he is in the mind of a dragon, seeing everything - the small dragon on the sands, shunned by the others, the ingenious creature it had become, its long hours of study alone in the cavern, its longing….he wondered for what but the thought was cut off. John falls over off of his feet. For the first time that morning, the dragon looks surprised. It too falls back on its haunches.

"What was that?" John demands.

The dragon seems to be searching for the words, astonished, as though it doesn't think the matter possible. "A soulgaze."

"A what?"

The dragon stands and straightens itself. "Like it or not, Watson," it uses his name suddenly, as if it has known him its whole life. "We are paired now." The weight of the sentence is heavy, but the dragon doesn't seem bothered. It turns and with a swish of its tail remarks, "I need some time. I suppose I shall see you on the training field." With that, it starts off.

"Wait!" Watson called after it. "I don't even know your name."

The dragon tilts its head back and gives a small smile. "Sherlock Holmes," it replies with a wink. And then it vanishes into the darkness from whence it came, leaving John bewildered upon the sands.

**Chapter One End**


	2. Chapter 2

_Me again! I'm loving all the reviews! Keep telling me what you think! And make sure to check out my other Sherlock stories: Burn Out Bright and The Reading Assignment (a short, sweet Glee cross-over). That said, I'm not one of those authors that holds stories for ransom - I wanted to know if this was anyone's "thing" and since it is, you can expect a chapter a day or so until its finished! I'm guessing there will be about eight or nine total chapters. Hope you enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Dragonlock<strong>

**A Sherlock Fanfiction by Erin R. Lightning**

**Chapter Two **

John is afraid that Sherlock won't show and he's starting to fear he looks silly clutching the tin of tobacco and the pipe. He might as well just smoke the darned thing and sooth his nerves, but he is quite sure the instructor won't like that one bit, so he pockets the piece. He looks at the case. He's not really sure why he brought the tobacco anyway. All he remembers is waking with the thought that he needs to buy some. He pockets this too. As if there won't be enough smoke on the training field as it is.

Just when he's about to give up hope, he catches sight of a shadow above him and steps out of the way as a lanky brown dragon lands gracefully beside him like a cat who has just leapt down from the windowsill. John feels his heart beat just a little faster - he's not sure if it's excitement at the sight of the great creature, or awe at Sherlock's mighty wings as they glisten in the sunlight, folding effortlessly into his form.

Sherlock catches him staring and smiles a strange reptillian smile. "I think you should know that I am married to my work, Doctor." John fumbles with the words to make an indignant reply, but before he can, Sherlock's nostrils flare and he cranes his neck downward, sniffing at John's coat. The tail wags leisurely back and forth. "You've brought my tobacco."

"Your tobacco?" John sputters.

"Yes - did you not get my message?" Sherlock's claw slips into John's pocket and procures the tobacco tin, which he opens and drops into his waiting maw, sucking on it like one would suck a taffy.

"I most certainly did not," Watson replies. Then he thinks about it - that strange, out of place thought that had been on his mind when he had awoken this morning. His eyebrows raise. "You did that?"

_'No need to yell. Did you not know that dragons are telepathic?'_ John can hear the smirk in the very tone in which the dragon put the question into his mind.

"No, no I didn't." John replies. Then he realized the downside to this and thought to himself,_ 'Bloody hell, and what if he can read mine?'_

"Quite observant - There's hope for you yet!" Sherlock exclaims. And then he turns away as the instructor calls the beasts and their partners to line up for inspection, leaving John stumbling after him, asking in a confused and startled manner, "Hope for what? Hope for what, Sherlock?"

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><p>The instructor is walking down the line. Holmes, being the antisocial dragon he has already proved himself to be, has taken the very last position in the line. Watson stands by his side. He cannot help but glance at the other recruits' dragons. His is by far the smallest, even though Sherlock stands a good twelve feet at the top of his nose and his wings, unfolded, maybe sixteen across.<p>

_'It is not the size of one's body that matters in war, John, but the size of one's intellect and the cunning with which they use it.'_ But was it just Watson, or did those great silver eyes have the tiniest bit of hurt in them?

The instructor reaches the two. He is neither young nor old, though his hair is a salt-and-pepper color and close-cut. He's not wearing army fatigues, as Watson would have expected, but rather a dark blue jacket over a white collared shirt an a pair of dark trousers.

"Interesting..." he ponders aloud, looking up at Watson's partner, then back to Watson. "But I thought the great Sherlock Holmes always worked alone?"

The dragon bows his head. "And a good morning to you, Inspector Lestrade. I was surprised at first to see you here, what with there being no dragons on the force, but if things are really that bad, I suppose it cannot be helped." Silently, he conveys to Watson,_ 'That is Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. He is filling in for your instructor, most likely because the war has heated up and they are in dire need of every available hand.'_

He is on the verge of saying something else, but doesn't have to, because Lestrade, looking crossly up at him says, "Cut me some slack, Sherlock - we both know that I was a soldier once too. Still would be, if not for..." He pauses, but instead eyes Watson and with a small cough to clear his throat asks genially, "And who is this young soldier with you? I should like to know the name of the man who convinced London's greatest mind to take up arms."

Watson stands at attention. "John Watson, sir, but I'm not a soldier, I'm a medic."

"A medic?" Lestrade looks shocked, then shakes his head and glances up at Sherlock. "You would choose a man of science over a man of war, wouldn't you?" A trill of smoke plumes from Sherlock's nostrils, but he says nothing and looks neither pleased nor angered. Lestrade shakes his head again and, leaning in to Watson, smiles. He speaks in a low voice so Sherlock won't hear him. "Well, you are certainly in for a difficult partnership. He's a great dragon, and someday, if we're very lucky, he'll even be a good one. I'll be watching you - I'm curious to know whether you'll be able to tame him." Lestrade steps back and regards them both, parting and saying as he does so, "I wish you both the best of luck."

Lestrade leaves. A young cadet passes out riding gear. Sherlock looks down at John and scoffs. "Don't listen to him. Some days he wouldn't even be able to find his shirt buttons if he did not ask me where they were." And with that, he takes up the gear in his claws and begins fastening it to himself, leaving John Watson to ponder the curious relationship between the Inspector and the dragon.

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><p>It is midmorning by the time the riding lessons start. Lestrade tries to instruct the cadets in all manner of things - how to steer your dragon, to make it go higher or lower, to make it slow or stop - but Sherlock is quite convinced that the only thing any of the cadets can really do is hold on for dear life and hope the brute they're on doesn't suddenly take a liking to a cliff face or a thunder cloud.<p>

It is time to mount up. Sherlock is kind enough to bend down so that John can easily reach the stirrups on his back. It's just like riding a horse, the doctor thinks to himself. But it's not. As John mounts up, he realizes just how much wider a dragon is than a horse and how unnerving it is to have the two great wings rustling just behind him. He sits at the crook of Sherlock's neck and back, just before the shoulder blades. His hands are clutching at reins which are connected into a bit in Sherlock's mouth. This is the part the dragon does not like. He has already vowed several times to invent a better bit because his is extremely uncomfortable.

John hasn't been listening. He's too worried about falling. A fear made exponentially worse when Lestrade suddenly gives the signal and Sherlock's legs bend, his wings spreading. John doesn't have time to scream. As Sherlock hurls them upward, John abandons the reins out of pure instinct and clutches the dragon's neck with both arms. His mouth is open and he's horribly afraid his pounding heart will fly right out of it. The rush of air stops as Sherlock's wings catch them and they are hovering, not even thirty feet off the ground. He looks back at John Watson over his shoulder. It's quite obvious that the doctor's fear is not something Sherlock understands.

_'I can't!'_ Watson's mind flashes. His lips don't seem to be working.

_'Nonsense!'_ Sherlock replies, and up they go again until they are a good fifty feet above the training field, hovering alongside the rest of the dragons. An unfamiliar voice gives a command from belowand they all start off again in the direction he has ordered them to. Except Sherlock, for as he prepares to follow, a white hot flash of fright penetrates his mind.

_'Sherlock, stop!'_

_'We're losing them, Watson,'_ Sherlock replies, his eyes glancing upward at the other recruits.

Watson feels cold from the sudden burst of air when they took off. He is trembling because he has never been off the ground before. His eyes are glued shut. His terror is palpable.

_'Oh for the love of...'_ But Sherlock has been slowly descending. His claws touch the solid earth and he looks back at John, preturbed. He waits. John does not move. A little thrum of a growl rolls out of Sherlock's throat. He's not quite sure what to do or say.

He is about to try when a great red-brown beast idles up to the pair. The approaching dragon is easily twice Sherlock's size, though one has to wonder if it is because of his frame or his fat, with several pairs of regal-looking horns and a decent tangle of sharp spines protruding from his scales. Perhaps the most interesting feature about him, however, is the scaly frill that wraps around his neck just below his head. Lain down, it looks like a tattered cape, but right now it is extended in a display of pride and looks rather like an umbrella encircling his head. Dark golden eyes regard the pair. "Having trouble, Sherlock?" The dragon asks.

"We are just fine, thank you." Sherlock replies. His voice is not exactly rude, but it has become rough and the words are curt.

"But your rider seems petrified of even leaving the ground," The dragon counters. It takes Watson gently in the spines of its tail and lifts him from Sherlock's back, lowering him to the ground. Watson's eyes fly open as he touches the earth. He's never been so grateful for being alive.

Sherlock growls. "A man's first time is always frightening. We were doing fine."

"It would be significantly less frightening if he had a less headstrong dragon forcing him through it."

"Why are you even here, Mycroft?" Sherlock is hurt. He doesn't look at John, though the army doctor is back to his faculties enough to be interested in their conversation.

"The Detective Inspector asked for my help in managing the new recruits." Mycroft's tail swishes back and forth, his great frame laying on the grass beside Sherlock's small and spry one. "And so here I am."

"That's a laugh. You're the laziest dragon there ever was and I highly suspect ever will be." Sherlock remains standing. It is odd, Watson thinks, to see him tower over this other, much larger dragon.

"Must we quarrel like this, little brother?"

"Brother?" Watson chimes in. "Is that some sort of dragon thing, or are you two actually...?"

"Nestmates, yes," Sherlock answers, though he still avoided John's eyes.

"He's always been upset because I hatched out first and he was the runt," Mycroft drawls. "You can imagine the family dinners." Actually, Watson thinks, he couldn't. He didn't ever think of dragons as sitting down to mealtime together. Which made him wonder - what even did a dragon meal consist of? Gruesome images of villagers being fed to...no, surely that wouldn't do.

By now, Lestrade has wandered over to see what all of commotion is about. "Is something wrong?" he asks.

"Why does everyone keep asking that?" Sherlock's tail flicks in annoyance. He looks to John, or rather through John and demands, aloud, "Come, John, let's get back to our lesson."

Watson takes a step closer to Sherlock, but the fear hits him again. He shakes his head. "If it's all the same to you, I'd like a quick rest, Sherlock."

This upsets the dragon. He shakes off the riding equipment. "When you intend to take this seriously, come find me." And with that, the sleek brown dragon leaps into the air. Watson tries to yell for him to come back, but realizes there's no use in the matter and falls into a sit, watching the shadow whizzing off over the horizon.

"It can't be helped," Mycroft sighs. "He's always like that. Impertinent, childish, completely oblivious to anyone but himself."

Watson gives him a glare that even he himself doesn't know he had in him. "Watch what you say about my partner."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, an expression quite un-dragonlike. "You're very loyal. Very quickly. But why then," Mycroft asks, with an edge to his voice, "Can't you ride him?"

Watson doesn't answer. He's not even sure himself.

Lestrade looks down at Watson. "So what now, doctor? Mycroft might be able to give you your lesson?"

Watson regards him before forcing himself back to his feet. Sherlock. Those hurt eyes. That small brown dragon being laughed at on the sands. The darkness, the studying, the longing for something..."I'm going to go find my dragon," John says resolutely. And, taking the riding gear into his arms, he sets off, leaving Mycroft and Lestrade behind to look after the young man, fiercely determined to work with the most impossible dragon in all of London.

"He could fix him," Lestrade says.

"Or make him worse than ever," Mycroft replies.

**End of Chapter Two**


	3. Chapter 3

_This one took a little longer for me to write than I expected. I wanted to give you some background into John's world, and then the majority of the chapter focuses on character development between the two. I wanted to make it slashy, without being too overtly sexual because while I love the pairing and I want them to be happy together forever, they are two wholly different species and I don't even want to begin to think of how that would work when it came to the bedroom. I wanted to play it canon - just out of reach, so to speak. Let me know what you think of it! Next update coming soon - be excited, we're finally going to get into the good old, solving mysteries theme that make Sherlock so much fun!_

_By the way, if anyone out there can draw dragons better than I can (I make stick figure doodles), let me know if you get the urge to draw these two! I would love to see! _

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><p><strong>Dragonlock<strong>

**A Sherlock Fanfiction by Erin R. Lightning**

**Chapter Three**

Let's pause briefly in this adventure to speak on the world in which it takes place. The year is 2010, the exact location London, England. But the Britain of our story is very different from the one which you can picture in your mind. The Queen of England in our Britain rules from the back of a great white dragon that is rumored to be made of pure marble and to have lived for over one thousand years. Big Ben was sculpted with a golden dragon clutching it. The air, on a typical day, is alight with the frames of dragons great and small and people walk down the streets side by side their constant companions without even a second glance cast in their direction.

You see, in this world, technology did not advance as mankind had hoped it would; rather, in this world, fantasy took its place. When it came to choosing implements of murder and mass destruction, man held up his gun beside the body of a magnificent and highly intelligent race – the dragons – and tossed it away like the plaything it was. And it has been like that ever since. War is waged not on a field of bullets, but rather in the skies, atop great flaming reptiles in a flurry of claws and thrashing tails. Men do not build tanks and there is no need for helicopters or army jets.

But this impressive strength comes at a cost. Dragons are highly unstable beasts. What little science there is has proven their mental capacity to be easily ten times that of a man's. They see little reason to become involved in petty human affairs. But for some reason, a reason which no one has yet been able to explain fully, they are absolutely tame in the hands of the one person they were meant for. Some go an eternity without meeting their match. And others meet theirs the second they hatch. A dragon knows its partner through what is called a "soulgaze" – a moment akin to celestial intervention wherein a dragon and its rider lock eyes and are able to see into the very depths of the other's soul. This prophetic connection enables a dragon and its rider to telecommunicate from long distances mentally, to feel one another's presence and pain, and to know the moods of their partner. It is said to be a deeper and more profound connection than any relationship a mortal could have with another mortal.

Now onto the different types of dragons. Until now, you have only met the dragons – large, fearsome, the stuff of legends truly. Sherlock and his brother, Mycroft, are such beasts. These are more typically the dragons that choose to spend their lives at the sides of soldiers or great rulers. Then there are the smaller dragonkin – a mix of species about the size of a dog, ranging from furred, lop-eared beasts to slender-bodied, scaled serpents. They are household beasts that pair themselves typically with the middle-class, and their intelligence, while somewhat lacking from their larger forebears, allows them basic speech and makes them constant companions to their owners. These dragonkin are, for the most part, flightless. Finally, there are the tiny faedragons – dragons no bigger than your thumb with wings like a butterfly's. While cute in appearance, these dragons are said to be the harbingers of death – those who become paired with them tend not to live past their youth. The faedragons are incapable of speech and it is said that they communicate telepathically in vivid images instead of coherent thoughts or words. Some refer to them as "The Daydreamers".

All of this will become important in due time. For now, let us return to the story at hand.

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><p>After a long afternoon of searching, John Watson finds his dragon curled up not so far from the cavern in which they first met. The sight is rather morbid, for clutched in Sherlock's right claw is a dragonkin's skull, which he is paying the greatest attention to. John looks past the skull to the dragon himself. He's not quite sure if Sherlock is yet aware of his presence – he thinks himself lucky if he is not, because the look on the dragon's face stops John's heart, makes it skip a momentary beat. The dragon's eyes are a deep, illustrious gray, like swirling smoke. They gaze out of a stoic countenance at the skull with contemplation bright within them. His maw is crooked, brow furrowed. His tail flicks back and forth like an agitated cat's. He looks….intelligent, brilliant even. And it hits Watson – this, this thing, this is my dragon. Mine alone. My one, truest companion. My friend – dare he call him that?<p>

"Nice skull," Watson remarks, his voice coming out a little weak at first. He can feel Sherlock's pessimism washing over him. It's cold. He doesn't want to stay in this emotion – fears it will swallow him whole.

"Have you had enough of my brother to last you a lifetime?" Sherlock counters crossly. He doesn't want to talk about what has happened, though, so Watson stays silent. This brings the dragon to pause. He sets the skull down and looks hard at the rider. "Don't give me that look."

"What?" Watson holds his hands up, incredulous. "I don't know what you're-"

"You're pitying me. You're feeling sorry for me. You had the same look at the field."

"I just – we hardly know each other," Watson replies, cautiously.

"You soulgazed me. That's enough to be going on, don't you think?" Sherlock stands, shaking himself from head to tail as his muscles flex. He is glaring down at Watson, but it's not anger in his eyes now. It is puzzlement, carefully concealed behind a lack of care.

"You know what I think?" Watson snapped, glaring right back. "I think you might just be scared."

"Scared?" The dragon's wings fluffed up in response to the challenge. "Of what?"

"That you might actually care. That someone might care about you."

"Come off it," the dragon scoffs.

"All I've heard from you since the moment we met is "Hello, I'm Sherlock Holmes, and I always work alone because no one else can compete with my MASSIVE INTELLECT!" And John throws up his hands in exasperation at the dragon as he takes a step closer. "And you know what the worst part of it is? You won't even talk to me! Most of that's just from what people say about you!"

"People say a lot of things – I find I usually don't need to," Sherlock replies, but John is right at his chest now, baring up at him as though their sizes were reversed.

"We're partners, Sherlock. Like it or not, it happened. And you need to learn to deal with it."

Sherlock opens his maw to speak. John feels a tremor of intrigue run through him. He recognizes it as Sherlock's. The dragon is trying his hardest, but Watson has nicked the armor. Sherlock doesn't know how to react. For the first time in his life, the dragon is speechless.

Watson saves him. "Besides, I told Mycroft to bugger off anyway."

The dragon cracks a smile. "Did you? And I thought I was the bold one." He regards Watson a moment longer than, with a sigh that reverberates only in Watson's mind, he gestures with a claw at the riding materials the army doctor has tossed in a heap beside himself in his flustering. "I take it you're here for your lesson then."

"I-yes, yes I am." He steels himself. He can't get frightened now, not after that display. He takes the saddle in his hands and moves toward the dragon, but Sherlock politely takes it from him with a gracious offer to assist. When it comes to attaching the bit and reins, he gives the pieces a disgusted look. Watson knows he has to give as much as he takes if this is going to work out. He holds up a hand. "You don't have to wear that."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "It will be dangerous."

"Yes, I know," Watson gives him the "you-don't-have-to-remind-me" tone, but his look is resolute. Sherlock nods and tosses it aside. Then he bends so that Watson can climb on. Their eyes meet. Watson hesitates.

Sherlock looks up at him and in a moment of absolute clarity between the two, he says slowly, "Admit it. You joined for the thrill. If you needed money, you could have taken any other job. If you needed lodgings, you could have gotten a loan. You're not afraid of death, or killing, or even falling – you're curious to know what it would be like."

Watson swallows. He places his hands on the dragon's side. Sherlock's body is like stretched leather – taut, smooth, supple – John can feel the dragon's powerful muscles beneath. He hoists himself into the saddle, his legs pressing tight into the stirrups. His hands falter when they realize the reins are not on, but he cautiously wraps them around Sherlock's broad neck just as he did earlier. The dragon is warm in his grasp, much warmer than a human would be. Now that he thinks about it, it's almost comforting.

Sherlock looks back over his shoulder. He doesn't understand the emotions John is broadcasting to him. Watson briefly wonders if dragons cannot feel tenderness, or compassion, cannot feel warm from touching someone they care for. Whether they can or can't, Sherlock does not correct him. Instead, he says, "I'll try to restrain myself."

"No," Watson replies. "You were right – we're going to war, we can't afford to be soft even in practice."

Sherlock says nothing, but Watson can feel his approval. The wings fan behind Watson and, before he can even take a breath, they are rocketing upwards. He feels panic surge over him again. The air is sucked from around them like a vacuum as they climb even higher into the golden glow of the late afternoon sky. The sun seems to be shooting towards them, but the wind whips at his bare flesh, freezing. His eyes close. His hands tighten around Sherlock's neck, digging into the leathery flesh. He cries out, mentally, 'I can't breathe!'

'Breathing is boring!' Sherlock cries back. But Watson's fear touches the dragon and he adds quickly, 'Hold on, we're almost there!'

And then it's over. Air rushes into Watson's parched lungs. The world stops flying at him in vicious, stinging torrents. His eyes open slowly. He is breathless again. All around him, he can see the clouds reflecting the golden-violet of the sun's light as it reaches for the horizon far in the distance. Below, the cavern seems so small, and the grassy hills stretch out into forever. Almost another world away, he sees London with its tall, towering buildings and bustling traffic. He feels weightless. He feels wonderful. The great form of Sherlock Holmes beneath him moves effortlessly, wings spread wide as he circles the earth lazily.

Suddenly, all around them, the air seems to part. A rainbow of colored forms materializes through the cloudbank, dragons of all sizes and shapes floating, or so it appears to Watson, by, as though they were adrift on some great stream. 'The thermals,' Sherlock supplies for him. 'Pockets of air that can carry a dragon for days without him ever having to lift a wing. We're right in the middle of them. Hold on.' Dipping his head, Sherlock spirals downward, though at no great speed. He breaks free of the thermal and beats his wings gently as he takes them on a tour of the countryside. They soar across the rolling countryside, swerve between the hilltops, dip low to the riverside as it twists its way down from the mountains in which the cavern lays.

"I quite like this," John says, when he can find the words. His hand reaches up to brush against the soft underbelly of a stray cloud. He can feel Sherlock turn below him and he looks out in front of them to find their course set for the very heart of his hometown.

"What must it be like," Sherlock muses, "In your funny little minds – to be idiots, to not know the joys of flight, to have to rely on someone else to show you your own world – it must be so dull. It must be so tiresome." Watson knows he is not remarking this about his rider, merely in general. But Watson can feel the underlying jealousy in Sherlock's tone. Though what the dragon has to be jealous of, Watson cannot quite comprehend.

They fly on a little longer before Sherlock warns him that they are descending. In a spectacular maneuver, Sherlock loses altitude as he approaches the city and finally lands, his back claws catching first and his right grasping at its spire, upon Big Ben itself. His left claw reaches back and grasps Watson by the back of his jumper and lifts him tenderly, placing him down atop the higher outlook. Watson runs to the far side of the outlook, staring over the city. He grasps his head in his palm. "Bloody brilliant!" he exclaims. He turns and looks at Sherlock. "You're brilliant," he says. Sherlock blinks. John flushes red.

"Yes, well," Sherlock says, looking up at the sky. "It's late. I'm going to turn in. I will call for you when I need you."

"Right," Watson replies, not really listening as he turns around to look out over the city one last time. He savors it, seeing everything from this new height. He never wants to come down. That dream seems almost too real however, for when he turns around, his dragon is gone. "Sherlock?" he calls, aloud. Then again mentally. No answer. "But how do I get down?" he cries into the slowly darkening sky. 

* * *

><p>The sun has almost set when Sherlock lands at the cavern once more. He sees his familiar skull lying on the ground where he had left it. He reaches up to pull off the riding gear, regards the skull a second time. He thinks of John Watson. He can feel the young doctor's confusion from afar. He smiles, a quirky, dragonic smile. His tail swishes, sending the skull tumbling over the cavern's ridge. He does not watch it fall, but instead turns and finishes removing the riding gear. He looks at it. It had been carefully cleaned before put to use on him – he can see the effort put into doing so. He holds the gear to his breast, curling up tight to the wall outside of the cavern. Tonight he will sleep under the stars – it hardly occurs to him the stories that will be spread of the strange, small dragon sleeping, clutching his rider's harness and saddle between his claws and dreaming of science and mystery.<p>

**End of Chapter Three**


	4. Chapter 4

_Hey everyone; No, I'm not dead. I run a murder mystery business as my real-life job, and as you can guess I just finished up with my busy season - there will be plenty more of your favorite detective and his rider! Anyway, I've finally finished mapping out the whole story and here's what you can expect in the future: there will be three mysteries in total and they will NOT be based on canon mysteries, as much as this chapter might lead you to believe. They will delve fully into the world that I've created for our Sherlock and John and may end up revealing some very, very personal parts of their natures as the man of science tackles with a fantastical universe that oftentimes eludes even his logic. Your dear Mrs. Hudson returns in this chapter; don't worry, she'll have a much larger role later. Also, Lestrade will be playing a big part in what is to come, as he is one of my favorite characters and one of the fandom's most unsung heroes. In between mysteries, we will of course be joining Sherlock and Watson as they learn not only to navigate the warzone of the mind, but also the actual battlefield. Two of our favorite villains will be teaming up in short order and it will be a battle of wit, scale, and wing to go down in the history books._

That said, welcome to Chapter 4. I do hope you enjoy, and as always I love to hear from you!

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><p><strong>Dragonlock<strong>

**A Sherlock Fanfiction by Erin R. Lightning**

**Chapter Four  
><strong>

John Watson is man of routine. He wakes every morning and puts on his jumper – he only has three to choose from – and a pair of favored blue jeans. He packs his army fatigues in a bag if he is headed to training. He showers, dries and combs his sandy blonde hair, brushes his teeth. He then comes downstairs and opens the morning newspaper, grabbing himself a slice of toast buttered and nearly drenched in strawberry jam and a cool glass of milk to go with his Earl Gray tea. After he is done with breakfast, he tidies the flat fastidiously. Then he goes out for the day. At night, he returns home and settles in with a good book or medical journal and a sandwich (it's all he can afford), then he goes to sleep.

The army doctor lives, thanks to his military stipend, at 221 B Baker St, a nice flat in a good part of town. Sometimes it feels lonely there. Sometimes he brings ladies home. Not often, though – he has bad luck with the gentler sex. On the morning in question, he is sleeping alone again, having been unsuccessful the night before in picking up a beauty he met at the café just down the street. This is probably for the best, as he is awakened to a sudden crashing noise and a monstrous dragon's head battering in his bedroom window.

"Come, Watson, we're needed," Sherlock says, curtly. "And bring milk. I'm famished."

Watson finds himself in a heap on his floor. His heart is hammering at his chest and he clutches his blankets as if worrying for his decency, his safety, and his sanity all at once. "Have you never learned to knock?" Watson demands, crossly.

Sherlock's eyes narrow as he leans his head in closer. "You're a doctor. You're young, but correct me if I'm wrong in assuming you've seen some bodies, some violent deaths, perhaps, gruesome things."

"I've seen my share," Watson replies.

"Bit of trouble too?"

Watson's eyes flash to the armoire at the far end of the room as he stands, wherein lies tucked a small pistol for home protection. "Some; yes."

"Then I bet you'd be willing to see some more," Sherlock smirks that strange, dark smirk of his and uncoils from the window to land in the street below, calling upward as he does so, "If convenient, I will meet you downstairs. And bring my milk!"

John stares a moment longer at the open window, thankfully not broken in the calamity of the dragon's startling entrance. If convenient? What is convenient, John wonders, about busting in someone's window at some ungodly hour of the morning and dragging them out of bed for – for what? Knowing Sherlock has a gateway straight to his thoughts and feelings, he tries to affect a disgruntled demeanor, but the jittery excitement of intrigue courses through his veins as he tosses on a pair of jeans and a clean jumper, foregoing the usual morning ritual. He is about to leave when he suddenly remembers and turns back, tossing on a coat and a pair of mittens. It can get damned chilly, flying that is. He opens the armoire and slips the revolver in as well – never know if it might come in handy.

As he opens the door, he is only slightly surprised to find an older woman with graying hair that had once been the color of sunflowers and still holds some of their beamish tint even now. It is his landlady, who lives on the floor below. Her flower-printed nightgown peaks out from beneath a gray robe as the bewildered woman stares at him with wide eyes, her hands fidgeting. "Dr. Watson, what on earth is going on up here? All this noise and slamming!" She pauses and then jumps to her own conclusion. "Oh, am I interrupting? I don't suppose you've a lady friend over?"

Watson feels slightly foolish and embarrassed at the remark. "No, no, Mrs. Hudson. Just a dragon."

Her hand jumps to cover her mouth as an astonished look lights up her soft blue eyes. "A DRAGON?" she exclaims in hushed excitement. "You don't mean one of those big, scaly, firebreathing-"

"The very thing," Watson replies as he walks past her, reaching into the fridge. Thank God the dragon's demands had been reasonable – the bare fridge only has a single gallon of milk to offer. His stomach growls. He begins to raid cabinets in search of his own breakfast.

"It's not in the house is it?" Mrs. Hudson asks. Watson smiles. The mischevious strain in him would love to mentally tell Sherlock to climb in his window and scare his poor landlady half to death.

Instead, the doctor shakes his head. "Oh no – he's right outside." He grabs a piece of stale bread and forlornly thinks of the jelly on the top shelf. No time! He turns and watches as Mrs. Hudson creeps to the window, pulling the curtain back just enough that she can peer down.

"He's beautiful!" A little gasp emits from her lips. Watson wonders if she's ever seen one before. His eyes wander past her as he takes a step closer to the window. A warmth courses through him. There Sherlock stands, dignified, on the sidewalk below. His gear has all been properly attached, with the exception of the reins of course. The few early morning passersby give him a wide berth as they pass, gaping up at him in awe. He doesn't even seem to notice them. In fact, his eyes seem far away, lost in thought.

Watson wonders what he could possibly be thinking of. And then a curious thought passes across his mind – that it is odd that he cannot hear what is going on in Sherlock's thoughts, though he is certain Sherlock can hear his. He will have to ask the dragon about this later. For now, he sees the dragon's head shake and the firm silver eyes look up toward the building. 'If now is inconvenient, come anyway.' Sherlock's voice echoes in John's head and John can hear the agitation in it.

John sighs. He looks to Mrs. Hudson. "He doesn't like to be kept waiting, so I have to be going," he explains. "But if you wanted, you could come down and meet him."

"Oh no, dear, you two run along now," she says, still looking as if she is in shock and waves a hand. She goes on to dither about "cleaning the place up", but John isn't listening. He has a date with a dragon, and it's already promising to be one hell of an adventure.

* * *

><p>Sherlock devours the milk with a ferocity that John has never seen in anyone – human or beast. As he climbs onto the dragon's lithe back, he can't help but think to himself, 'It's like he hasn't eaten in days.'<p>

"I haven't," Sherlock replies, casually, aloud.

"But that can't be healthy!" John exclaims.

"Damn my health," the dragon thunders. "The game is on, Doctor. I cannot afford to waste my time on trivialities like food or sleep."

"Trivialities?" the young man queries. He is about to say something else when he feels the dragon's muscles tense beneath him, the familiar lowering of Sherlock's body as his wings stretch out and he prepares for takeoff. He braces himself, but this time around the ascent is not nearly as bad as the last. The scary thought runs through his head that he just might be getting used to flying. When they have straightened out, he looks back forlornly at the brownstone below, the nice warm bed that seems so far away…he turns his eyes forward and looks out over the city. "Where are we going?" John asks. "What game?"

"Murders – four murders, to be exact – in north Brixton," the dragon replies, curtly.

"And why are we going? This sounds like a job for the police."

"If they were not such absolute morons, you would be correct," Sherlock scoffs. "No, this matter is beyond them and therefore it falls in my jurisdiction. I am, as you might call it, a consulting detective – the only one in the world."

"But the police don't consult dragons!" John replies, incredulously.

"No, they don't," Sherlock agrees. He casts a look backward at John and Watson feels a chill as those icy silver eyes meet his own. "But they do consult me. And if they are very lucky, I just might decide to help them."

"And how exactly is that? You're not exactly subtle, you know." Watson has the vague image in mind of his twelve-foot-tall companion sneaking after a suspect down a dark alley; albeit Sherlock's prowess at stealth has thus far been impressive – John has seen him slither out of crevasses and lie so still one would think he was a stone – but the city streets seem a little out of his element.

A beat of the great detective's wings. "I call it the Science of Deduction."

"The what?"

A sigh, but Watson feels a flash of excitement from his ride. "The science of deduction, which I have founded on the basis that, by eliminating that which is impossible, the only thing that remains, however improbable, must be the truth." A moment passes and Sherlock must realize how confounded he has made his partner, as he adds, "It's how I could tell your medical profession from your riding crop and your fingertips, your family problems and your gambling problem from your demeanor and from the sound of your footsteps, and your family's wealth from your jumper."

"You couldn't possibly…" John starts.

"When you approached me in the cavern, I asked you for your riding crop. I noticed when you handed it to me that it was in pristine condition – it hadn't even been cracked once. I could read in this that you were a soldier of self-discipline, as most of the young recruits love to test them out or are required to learn how to use a crop before they meet a dragon; but your fingertips told me that you were not a soldier – the indenture of the tips themselves marks you as someone who does a fair amount of writing. A writer and a military man? You didn't have the composure to be a journalist or a reporter, so you must have been a doctor, but a fairly new one as you were not able to yet stomach the stench of a dead body."

John blanches, ashamedly. A good three weeks has passed since he met Sherlock, and in that time he has been taking the required military classes on dragon anatomy, but, human or non, he still finds himself a little weak in the stomach when he is forced to be around the deceased.

The dragon goes on. "You were the youngest in the family – I knew that by the way in which you shrunk behind the other cadets and shied away from the older dragons. If you had simply been afraid, you would have turned tail, but your submission spoke volumes of your family relations. The sound of your footsteps indicated the lack of coin, meaning you either don't have any, or you don't trust yourself with carrying it. The first could not be true – the clothes you were wearing under your fatigues were of good make, but not the sort of clothing I would say you picked out for yourself and certainly not new. Meaning a gift, most likely from a parent, and a parent of good background. Your manners also spoke of your family's standing. "

"Amazing," Watson remarks, practically speechless. "And the inheritance? Was that a guess?"

Sherlock's lips curl, pleased. "I never guess," he says. "It was simply a matter of-" But he goes silent, his eyes trained on the ground. John follows his gaze. Blue and yellow flashing lights and the distant sound of sirens.

Sherlock begins his descent, his voice a purr. "There's been a fifth. Perfect."

**End of Chapter Four  
><strong>


	5. Chapter 5

_Here's the first mystery of Dragonlock. I know a few of you will be quite upset that Donnovan's not in this chapter - don't worry; she'll make her appearance soon enough. Regardless, I hope it lives up to your expectations._

_I just wanted to take a moment and thank all my lovely reviewers. It's your comments and excitement about this story that get me all in a tither about writing it. :3  
><em>

_I think I should admit now that this was meant to be a crack fiction in the start, but it grew into something beautiful as time passed. It's actually based on the picture that circulated around deviantart and tumblr of Benedict as Smaug and Martin as Bilbo (so excited for that). Being a huge fan of the Pern series, I developed the world as close to that as possible, while still keeping in tact the world of the new canon BBC Sherlock. The dragons and their partners, however, can be considered like daemons from Phillip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy, although this is not to say that everyone has one. As Mrs. Hudson will explain soon, some people don't have the chance to partner with even a house dragon and others are simply too terrified to ever want to go near such creatures._

_Lastly, I wonder how many of you will spot the twist in this chapter. ;)  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Dragonlock<strong>

**A Sherlock Fanfiction by Erin R. Lightning**

**Chapter Five**

The crime scene isn't what Watson expects.

It's just after dawn on a crisp autumn morning; the air is nippy, but more than that it's tense with the nervousness of danger in the air, the reporters already gathering just outside of the police boundary, the different men and women in uniform rushing about. The eerie, fiery orange glow of the sunrise casts its ominous glow across the street which, though in a nice part of town and lined with planters and trees, carries the hefty and smoky smell of industry and construction. The homes of the working class.

As John dismounts, Sherlock takes the caution tape in a dainty talon and lifts it so that the young medic can sneak under. The tape ripples down the dragon's smooth back and falls off of his tail as Sherlock follows close behind. The various members of Scotland Yard don't seem bothered by his presence; they barely even glance up from their scrapings and filings and holding back of the press as the dragon passes.

And then there's the body - a tiny little foot falling off of the sidewalk to dangle lifelessly on the pavement, the thin little frame face-down, fair hair tumbled over the shoulders of what could be a dainty Sunday dress.

John has to turn away, disgust filling his gut. "A child-" he breathes, looking up at Sherlock.

Sherlock's mind tickles the edges of his consciousness. 'They all were.' Watson casts him a look of horror and is about to say something else when a thin young man approaches, a mean looking man with a pinched face and oily hair, wrapped up in one of the force's sterilization suits. The nasty look of revulsion on his face as he approaches reminds Watson of a rat that's been stuck in a trap.

"What are you doing here?" the man whines in a nasally voice. "No one called for you."

"Always a pleasure, Anderson," Sherlock's voice is cool. His eyes meet Anderson's and the man seems a little taken aback by the casualty of his tone. 'He's an impudent moron and I did not expect him to be involved with this, but ah, good, here comes his trainer,' Sherlock intones to Watson, who looks in the direction of the dragon's gaze to see the familiar face of a worn Detective Inspector Lestrade approaching.

"Call off your dog, Inspector," Sherlock waves a talon at Anderson. "Did you forget to mention to him that you have handed this case over to me?" Anderson starts to interject, but Sherlock looks him right in the eyes and says, "That's right, slow as you are, I think you realize that that means you work for me right now."

Anderson scoffs. "You wish!" he snarls and looks to Lestrade for back-up. But Lestrade just looks defeated and ignores the posturing between the two of them, waving Anderson off on some trivial task and then looking from Sherlock to his rider. "You brought him with you?" he asks.

"He is a man of medicine. And I need an assistant. I supposed he might be of some use," Sherlock says, calmly.

Lestrade ponders this a moment, before nodding. "All right, but make it quick. If the press sees him in here, they'll have a field day. And put on this-" He takes a sanitization suit from the trunk of the nearest police car and tosses it to Watson. Gesturing for the two to follow him, he leads the pair over to the body, shooing away the current investigators. Watson fumbles into the suit, trying not to trip as he catches up to the two in time to hear Lestrade's recap.

"I suppose you are already well aware, but this is the fifth murder we've had in the past week, all of them children, roughly eight to ten years old. For the most part, they've all died in Brixton, except for the second, who was up in Surrey. All from unknown causes – no visible wounds, no traumatic damage –"

John is listening intently, until suddenly he feels a nudge on the back of his shoulder. 'Nevermind the facts – they obviously haven't gotten him anywhere. It's time to test your mettle, Doctor,' Sherlock's voice rings in his head. 'What do you make of it?'

Watson bends, looking the body over. He tunes out the Detective Inspector's voice as he continues rattling away the details of the murder. John's hands carefully flip the victim over, just enough that he is certain there are no wounds to be seen. He palpates her lungs, her heart, her neck…nothing. He looks up at Sherlock. 'It just seems like natural causes.'

'It is, in part,' Sherlock replies, nodding. John is about to press him on the cryptic answer when Sherlock interrupts Lestrade aloud. "And witnesses?" he asks.

"There were none. Well, no one that saw what happened," Lestrade answers, shaking his head. "There's nothing to go on."

The dragon's eyes run across the body. Then he dips low and sniffs at the corpse. John is repulsed, but knows that dragons have much superior senses than humans and it is a legitimate manner of investigating. After a moment, Sherlock runs a talon along the shoulder of the young girl's dress and draws it back, holding it up to Watson so that the doctor can see the thin golden film gleaming against the clay color of Sherlock's claw. "Oh, you have plenty to go on, Inspector."

"Pollen?" John Watson asks, leaning in close to get a better look. Lestrade mimics him, but then pulls away, looking up at Sherlock.

"I don't see the significance," Lestrade finally says.

"And that is why you will continue to be only mediocre in your line of work," Sherlock's scathing reply seems to hit the inspector hard. "Ask this girl's relatives, when you can find them, if she was paired with a faedragon."

John blinks. He has only ever heard of faedragons before, never seen one, not even in the cavern where he met Sherlock. He tries to remember the lore he knows of them. "They're….omens of death, aren't they?" he asks. "I know it's just story, but aren't they supposed to be drawn to the death energy that surrounds young children when they are…..terminal?"

Sherlock smirks. "Not as daft as I would have thought. Superstition aside, they are rather rare and only attracted to young children, yes. And they are very much like bees – they love the taste of nectar and often carry around the pollen of the plants they visit on their wings. Thus, the pollen on her jacket – a faedragon must have been sitting there. And I would chance a guess that all of your victims have the same characteristic, if your forensics team has not already destroyed the evidence. However, we are fortunate indeed. This is fresh."

Watson blinks, astounded by his dragon's deduction. "Amazing…."

Lestrade's tone is suddenly soft and somber. "But if she is here, then where is her dragon?"

"We may yet make something of you yet, Detective," Sherlock says, nodding.

Watson looks at him. 'Where?' he thinks, puzzled. 'It probably flew off,' he thinks, and wonders if they shouldn't be looking for it.

Sherlock has heard him and his mind buzzes against the doctor's, thrumming with disapproval. He whirls on the doctor. "They told you, didn't they? When you enlisted?" He looks Watson right in the eye and his voice is a bare snarl. Watson feels the red hot searing pain of his anger. "Do they teach you nothing in the army anymore?" This is the first time he's heard the dragon genuinely upset with him – misconstrued though his anger may be - even when he had been afraid of his first flight lesson, Sherlock had only scolded him. This time a certain severity rings in his voice - and it that fear? - and Watson, not knowing why, looks hurt and taken aback at once. The fire in the Sherlock's eyes fades, feeling Watson's bewilderment, and he lowers his voice.

"You and I are….partners, John. For life. The bond between a human and a dragon – it's very beneficial to both, but also very costly. You see, if the human dies, the dragon dies and, similarly, if the dragon dies, its partner goes too." The information crashes against John with all the force of a tidal wave. Their lives…connected….till death? This deal suddenly seems a lot more sour than he had originally thought. Anger courses through him. Why didn't they tell him and other recruits this at training? He stares open-mouthed at his dragon who turns his head away – it's not a topic Sherlock feels comfortable discussing, this much Watson can tell.

Instead, Sherlock looks to Lestrade, whose eyes have gone dark. "As our friend the Detective Inspector knows far too well," the dragon murmurs. John is too preoccupied to realize that it is the first time the dragon has had anything even closely resembling empathy in his voice. He does, however, glance at Lestrade. He feels the tethers of a past between his dragon and the silver-haired man, something important, something they aren't telling him. An ache in his heart. What are they to each other? What were they? Where now does he fit in?

Regardless, a long silence settles between the three, before John finally speaks up again, his voice a little weaker than before. "So it's possible that these are murders. And that whoever is killing the children is actually killing their dragons?"

Sherlock beams at him. "Exactly."

"But how will we find the dragons?" Lestrade asks.

"Serial killers are tricky," Sherlock says, his body uncoiling from the tense shadow it has been to turn his head back and forth, eyes scanning the street. "You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just stand around and let more children die!" Lestrade snaps. But John sees the light in his dragon's eyes, feels the creeping sensation of excitement emanating from him. He knows Sherlock has already found something, even as the dragon replies, "But he's already made it."

"Oh, and what's that?" Lestrade looks around, bewildered.

"Her dragon fed just before it was killed. The pollen is fresh. There must be traces around here – leading from where it fed, all the way to wherever it has gone, or at least giving us a clue."

"Right, so just tell my men to analyze everything in a two block radius and hope to find enough pollen to give us a trail back to the killer? And during allergy season? It would take all day!"

"Oh don't be silly, the trail would be long gone by the time Anderson and his sniffer dogs even came close to picking it up," Sherlock's confidence is showing – he seems like a new dragon, full of life and zest, not the brooding, anti-social creature John has seen of him until now. He is sniffing the ground like a watch hound, turning in circles as his eyes narrow into thin slits, observing. Lestrade starts to ask him what exactly he is proposing, when John Watson suddenly understands and pipes up – "But you can see it, can't you?"

Sherlock winks at him. "A dragon's eyesight is a thousand times keener than a humans. I can follow the trail with ease." His tail swishes back and forth as he lifts up the edge of the police tape. "Come Watson, there is work to be done."

John starts after him when Lestrade calls to the two of them, "Wait!" He stalks purposefully up to Sherlock, who turns round to tower over him with an impetuous glare, and points a finger at the dragon's nose, staring him down reproachfully. "Holmes. I expect to be kept informed. The Yard is fairly tolerant of you because of your track record, but I cannot just be seen letting a dragon go gallivanting about –"

"Making the Yard look like the bunch of sniveling grade schoolers they are, I know," Sherlock finishes for him. "But that isn't up to you, Inspector. You've put this in my claws and I will find this man, whether you agree with my methods or not." His voice continues, for John's ears alone, 'He's just making a show for my new "colleague"'.

Nevertheless, Watson assures him, "Don't worry, Inspector, I'll be with him."

"Yes," the Inspector sighs, and he alone sees the impish, fangy grin of the dragon detective as he says it, "That's what I'm afraid of."

**End of Chapter Five  
><strong>


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